


strip away your hard veneer

by basketofnovas (slashmarks)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: BDSM, Beating, F/M, Femdom, Gambling, M/M, Mild Gore, Neo-Ottomanism, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:49:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9783188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmarks/pseuds/basketofnovas
Summary: “A week of your time,” she said. “Mine. Whatever I want to do with it. If you can last it out, I will never bring up crimes committed by you in the course of the Ottoman Empire again, no matter how you parade your Neo-Ottomanism and your nostalgia in front of my face."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tassledown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tassledown/gifts).



> This is a slightly belated Valentine's Day gift for my partner, Tassledown, who asked for some combination of Ukraine/Turkey, America/Russia, whump, femdom, and bad management of Russian forests and probably was not expecting me to try to get them all into the same fic. Happy Valentine's Day, love! (Sorry I couldn't work Turkey/Egypt into it too.)
> 
> This is primarily Ukraine/Turkey; the America/Russia is background. It also probably should have been a lot longer, but it's late enough as it is right now.
> 
> Warnings: light-hearted references to present day political situations which are not light-hearted in nature; characters being extremely offensive about historical political situations; consensual yet terrible BDSM etiquette; light gore, mostly in the form of fantasy; and a lot of punching. 
> 
> I'm also going to take a moment to clearly state that the premise of this fic is smut based on Turkey mouthing off about the Ottoman slave trade and historical raids into Ukraine, and if that upsets you, you should consider not reading it.

“I just think it's kinda disingenuous, you know?” Turkey said. “I mean, going on about the Crimeans when you raided 'em right back.”

Katya punched him.

Turkey twisted but couldn't completely evade the blow; she connected satisfyingly with his jaw, in a location that would be very visible at the meetings tomorrow.

“Fuck,” he said, and punched back. “I mean, haven't you had your revenge? _I_ just bought them. The state that took them doesn't even exist anymore.”

She tackled him and took them both to the mats of the gym, where they struggled for control, rolling several times before Katya got him into a headlock. Mercifully, he shut up in favor of gasping for air.

She counted to five, long enough to establish she had won, and released him to the mat. His head hit the padding with a deeply gratifying thud. He took several moments longer than her to stagger to his feet after.

“Thanks,” Turkey said, rubbing his throat. “Great match, let's never do that again.” He strode to the side and started toweling sweat off his face.

“You talk too much,” she said. “You might win more often if you concentrated.”

If he was going to pick that subject to talk about, his life expectancy would be better, too.

He would definitely win more often if he was willing to use all of his strength; she could tell that he was holding back when he hit her, probably out of consideration for their relative economic situations. _That_ wasn't insulting at all. 

She took solace in the colors that his face was already starting to turn. Accelerated healing had its perks on your enemies, too.

“You started it,” Turkey said, having all the emotional maturity of a sulking teenager.

“It was a battle cry.” Katya went to retrieve her water bottle from the bench and downed half of it, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand absently. “Not a personal insult.”

“It was a battle cry with my old name in it, from when your brother cut my head off. That sounds like a personal insult to me.”

“The subject seemed topical.”

She was meeting Vanya for dinner at, yes, six-thirty, which meant she had just about enough time to shower before she had to leave the gym to return to the hotel and change clothing for the restaurant. No time for another match with any better company.

A pity. She had brought a sword specifically because of an invitation from India, but he didn't seem to be present today.

“Topical?” Sadik said incredulously.

“Well. Your leaders have been discussing it, yes? Neo-Ottomanism, I think you call it. Tell me, does he really have golden toilet seats, or was that truly slander?”

“Ukrayna, I don't know what the fuck the rumors are saying now, but my boss doesn't take me on tours of his bathrooms.”

“Perhaps not in the present day,” she allowed, and drained the rest of her water bottle. “If you don't want us to mention your dirty little history, you could stop bragging out of it from the other side of your mouth.”

“It isn't _dirty_. God, Europeans make everything so sordid.”

“In order to avoid public discussion of sordid affairs, don't have them. You brought up the raids, Turechchyna.” Apparently they were going to have this argument after all.

“It wasn't _that_ bad,” Turkey muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Plenty of them were freed later. And you know perfectly well that slave-of-the-sultan exploitation porn is exaggerated horse shit.”

Katya dug her nails into her fists and breathed, carefully, through her nose. She considered whether she could take a few extra minutes to punch Turkey again. A few times.

Unfortunately he really was doing better than her economically. An ostensibly friendly, rule-less brawl wouldn't necessarily leave her on the winning side, and holding a gun on him would probably have negative consequences for her political situation.

“Not like they'd have had any more of a choice who they married or whatever at home,” he added, and her temper snapped.

“If you think it was so wonderful,” she snarled, whirling to face him, “Why don't _you_ try it?”

Turkey was never going to get control of his mouth; she should have left as soon as the match was over and avoided giving him an opportunity to goad her. The knowledge that he didn't do it intentionally didn't help.

“What?” he said, blankly.

“A week of your time,” she said. “Mine. Whatever I want to do with it. If you can last it out, I will never bring up crimes committed by you in the course of the Ottoman Empire again, no matter how you parade your Neo-Ottomanism and your nostalgia in front of my face. I will even apologize for the Cossack raids, and avoid sniggering in the process.”

“And if I can't?” Turkey said, narrowing his eyes at her.

“You apologize publicly for them,” Katya said. “In front of your boss.” She considered this, and revised it. “Our bosses. I will arrange for a speech to be written.”

“Shit,” Turkey said. His tone bordered offensively on admiring. “That's cruel, Ukrayna.”

“Give me an answer.”

He frowned. “You're talking about role play, right? I mean, if I can fold, that means any time.”

“No other limits, but yes,” Katya said. “You will have a safeword. If you use it, you lose the bet, naturally.”

“Keeping in mind that I'm not promising not to blame you if you do permanent damage--”

“I have self control even if you don't, Turechchyna--”

“Fine. When do we start?”

“Now,” she said, checking her watch. “I am meeting my brother in an hour, and I need to use the washing facilities first. You will accompany me to dinner. Do you have something to write with? Let me give you the restaurant name.”

She hadn't been happy with Vanya either, lately, after all.

 

The restaurant was very expensive and very Russian. Katya expected as much from having allowed Vanya to make the reservations; at least it meant the tea was served correctly. She supposed watching Turkey attempt to behave properly might be entertaining after all.

She was not the only one with a surprise date, tonight. The Russian character of the restaurant made the identity of the additional company even more surprising.

“I still don't see why you can't serve coffee too,” America was saying, though at least he had the decency to do it in Russian. “And the jam shit? Seriously?”

“You aren't supposed to drop goblets into your cup like that,” Katya said, sitting down. “You put it in your mouth and hold it there, then sip the tea through it. And how have you been?”

It was just as well that Ivan had brought America; the child's manners could perhaps use some work, but the more people between Ivan and her as a buffer, the easier things had been, lately. Natasha could only manage so much of it, particularly as she didn't tend to talk at all for long stretches of time. She was also back in Belarus at the moment, handling something for her boss. Something to do with petroleum exports.

“Me? I'm great,” he said, with the sort of sincere and wholehearted enthusiasm only an American could put on that word. “Have you seen my news? My people are so _pissed_ right now it's _amazing_ , listen, you've got to let me tell you the shit they're mailing me on postcards, some of it's brilliant. Nobody's paid this much attention to Congress in _years_.”

“Any normal nation would be concerned about unprecedented levels of domestic unrest,” Ivan said.

“Aw, babe, thanks for worrying, but I'm doing good.” America kissed her brother's cheek and beamed at him, correctly interpreting the complaint. Meanwhile, Vanya visibly repressed the urge to flee the restaurant.

Katya reflected that it was nice that her brother had found someone who understood him so well.

“If this is everyone,” Ivan said, hastily reclaiming his hand from America's and opening the menu, “We can order when the waitress returns.”

“It isn't quite,” Katya said. “My date went to handle parking arrangements. He will be here shortly.” There had been a valet, but she felt that there was little point in paying for the service when she had someone to do it for free.

“Your date,” Ivan repeated. It was not quite a question.

“I'm glad to see you brought Fedya,” she replied, nodding to America. “Otherwise it might have been awkward. Please, read me some of these post cards? I am curious.”

America fished out his phone obediently – for once in his life – and began regaling them with hastily photographed scripts, containing an assortment of rude, impolitic and vulgar language directed at his federal government. On the particularly offensively phrased ones, he bounced in place gleefully and shoved the phone across the table to let her see.

He must have picked up on her mood, because one in every three included a reference to Russian interference. Katya would have to do something nice for him later; perhaps she'd take him out for his vile coffee, since he didn't like the tea here.

Turkey arrived after America had read fifteen or so of the postcards, Katya's cheeks were starting to hurt from repressing a smirk, and Vanya was beginning to develop a twitch. Turkey glanced between them and swallowed, audibly, before taking out the chair next to Katya's.

There was a beautifully fraught silence. Vanya looked at Turkey, then at Katya, then hastily began a long, savoring drink of his tea.

“Um,” Turkey said.

“Huh,” America said. “Can he even read the menus?”

He asked it in Russian. If it would not have been very rude to her brother, Katya would have leaned across the table and kissed him.

Instead, she leaned back and watched. Turkey attempted to decide whether to pretend incomprehension. Vanya poured himself more tea.

“I can translate for you, if you like,” Katya said, after several minutes had passed. She conceded to say it in English.

“It's fine,” Turkey muttered, embarrassed. “I can make out a few words.”

“Dude, is the food here going to be a problem for you?” Alfred said, joining them in his own language. “I mean, it's not exactly halal.”

“I'm sure it will be find,” Katya said, before Turkey could argue.

“If I let you translate you'd tell me the beef dishes were pork, wouldn't you,” Turkey said.

“I'm going to beat you for that later,” she replied, and picked up the menu.

America and her brother exchanged a glance across the table, but neither commented.

“ _Anyway,”_ America said after a few minutes, “We were talking about the environmental reports, right? Because, like, I hear what you're saying but I'm definitely not the only person shirking here? I mean, how many hectares of forest do you have in Asia that you aren't even studying? Didn't _Japan_ have to make up for it?”

“Fedya,” Ivan said, “Is this really the time?”

“You _invited_ me. You specifically said to me, 'I'm going to have a working dinner with my sister, do you want to come?'”

“There are other matters to discuss,” Katya said, and waited until Ivan had begun to look relieved. “For instance, I had some reports on the construction of the shield around Chernobyl that I thought you might be interested in reading.”

“Of course,” Ivan said through gritted teeth. “The matter is very important. More tea, Katya?”

 

Her room at the Ukrainian embassy was not unduly large, but it was quiet, and clean, and did not contain a thousand years of memories of her siblings in tangible and unavoidable form, which made it far preferable to her house at the moment. She had perhaps spent too much time on business recently; she had actually bothered to unpack her luggage into the normally empty dresser.

It also was not soundproofed. Katya supposed, looking between Turkey and the wall she shared with the office of the ambassador, that this could be more of a problem.

“Wait here,” she ordered him firmly. “Don't go through my drawers or I'll beat you. I need to check something.”

Fortunately the office of the ambassador was at the moment dark and empty; she remembered belatedly that the official was at some kind of late social event. The closest occupants were not so close that things would be overly awkward in the morning.

She returned to her room, locked the door, and started up her laptop.

“Going to make me sweat while I wait?” Turkey asked. Surprisingly, he had obeyed the command to stay out of her belongings, and seemed to be looking out the window.

“Hardly. I don't have an independent speaker system here,” she said, and hit play on the album she had loaded.

The raucously loud sounds of Ukrainian folk-rock filled the room. Katya winced at the volume and turned it down slightly. Not so much that any sound from the room would be audible outside it.

Turkey winced. “You couldn't play _actual_ music for this?” he said.

She backhanded him across the face.

“Shit!”

“Shut up,” she said, and grabbed him by the shoulder.

She was no stronger than her human body allowed her to be; it had been some time since her country had given her much strength. Turkey could have forced her off of him – but he wouldn't, if she was correct about his pride.

His jaw clenched, but he didn't speak; only glowered at her, shoulders hunched.

“Good,” she said. “You have some sense. Take your clothes off or I'll cut them off.”

“Starting to think this was a bad idea, Ukrayna,” he said, and his head snapped back when she hit him that time.

“I told you not to speak.”

“You want to hit me anyway,” he said, sidestepping her fist to finish getting his shirt off. “I'm just giving you the excuse you want. Never knew you had it in you,” he said, almost laughing, far more pleased by it than he should have been.

That was the point where she gave up on being reasoned about this, took him by the shoulder, and more or less threw him at the bed.

The mattress screeched loudly enough it was audible over the music. She saw Turkey wince, and noted that he must have hit the broken spring on the left side.

“Well,” she said, stalking over to stand in front of the mattress. She started unbuttoning her blouse. “Finish undressing before I do or I cut them off.”

The scars on him were a thing of beauty; she thought imagining what had put them there would be an entertainment to last days. Perhaps she'd round out the week by asking him, if he lasted that long. Oh, she could guess at some of the weapons; the jagged one along his breast was clearly from a sword that had gone in deeply at one point and then been pulled out along the side, whereas if she was correct the mass of scar tissue on his hip was likely the result of a blow from one of the old fashioned guns at close range.

She dropped onto the bed on her knees and touched that one. There was a slight temperature difference between it and his skin; the scar tissue was deep and stiff. The feel of it in her hand made heat pulse deep inside her; she imagined grabbing his skin over the the scar and _twisting_.

Turkey had pushed himself up on one elbow, and watched her, but was quiet for once.

“I wonder if I could crack it open,” she said.

He swallowed. “If you want.”

Katya let her eyes drift a few inches over. “The thing that strikes me as curious here,” she said, “Is that you're hard.”

Turkey went violently, vividly red, and she swung a leg over him.

She was already slick enough to take him inside her easily. She watched his face intently as she sank down onto him. He was thick more than he was long, and taking him stretched her pleasantly.

As she sank down over him, Turkey dropped his head back and swallowed again, faster.

“It feels good?” she said, when she was sure she could speak steadily.

“Hot,” he said, eyes closed. “You're -- almost hot enough to burn.”

She got her arm around the back of his neck, pulling him up to meet her with a kiss. The position made his cock shift inside her, and she couldn't help shivering with it.

“Don't worry,” she said, shifting forward and feeling the muscles of his stomach ripple against her thighs. “I'll let you enjoy this one. I have the rest of the week to break you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The Crimean Khanate's economy was dependent largely on [raiding Russia, Ukraine and Belarus and transporting captives to the Ottoman Empire to be sold as slaves.](http://www.academia.edu/2971600/Slave_Trade_in_the_Early_Modern_Crimea_From_the_Perspective_of_Christian_Muslim_and_Jewish_Sources) It was and is relatively common to claim that the Ottoman slave trade was not as cruel and inhumane as its counterparts in the West, but I think we can all agree that slavery is terrible without having to meet a certain threshold of cruelty.
> 
> [Neo-Ottomanism](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neo-Ottomanism) is a trend in current Turkish politics. [No comment on the accuracy of the golden toilet thing](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/jun/01/turkey-erdogan-invites-opposition-gold-toilet-seat-claims).
> 
> Katya is a diminutive of Yekaterina; Vanya is a diminutive of Ivan; Fedya is apparently an option for a diminutive of Alfred in Russian; Natasha is a diminutive of Natalya.
> 
> [The new Chernobyl shield. ](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/nov/29/chernobyl-nuclear-disaster-site-covered-with-shelter-prevent-radiation-leaks-ukraine)
> 
> The Russian forest management information was provided by my partner, who is a geology student, and I don't have a link on hand for it.
> 
> The title is from the song "Queer" by Garbage.


End file.
